An Open Letter to Drivers who Travel on Green Hill Road

"Animals are more than ever a test of our character, of mankind's capacity for empathy and for decent, honorable conduct and faithful stewardship. We are called to treat them with kindness, not because they have rights or power or some claim to equality, but in a sense because they don't; because they all stand unequal and powerless before us." ― Matthew Scully

This is an open letter to anyone who travels along Green Hill Road. Yes, I'm talking to you. I've seen you, racing along the curves of this narrow, sylvan road. I know it's exhilarating, accelerating into the curves and feeling your car hug the road as the dappled light shimmers around you. I get it. I understand that you're in a hurry, that you have places to be, that this is the quickest way to get where you're going. You say to yourself that there's no need to hold yourself to the tepid 30 miles per hour posted on the signs. Everyone goes 40 at least. I hear you. And I see you, pressing the gas petal, picking up seconds, feeling the rush. Or maybe you're distracted, hurrying, thinking about your day, about your relationship, work, groceries. Thinking about your family. I see you.

I see other things, too. A red fox, dead at the side of the road. A turtle, smashed on the yellow line. I see a mother deer cross the road in front of me one evening, a dappled baby following close behind. I stop in case there are more, and my family takes a few moments to admire them and wish them peace. Two days later, I see the baby, its hind legs in the road, its body laying cold and terribly still in the graveyard, and I think of that mother, whose baby was not much younger than mine.

On Friday morning, I didn't see you. No-one did. As you whipped around a curve, you hit my beautiful, sweet, gentle greyhound, June, with your car. I know you felt it, because you called the dog warden to say you "might have hit a greyhound." You saw her well enough to identify her breed, but you didn't stop.

The warden called us right away. She knew how to reach us because we've been in touch, trying to figure out how June and her sister, Willow, keep getting out of our fenced yard. You hit her, and you felt it, but your day, your grocery list, your job were too important for you to stop.

So my husband had to carry her in his arms as we drove to the animal ER, blood everywhere, my three daughters in the back seat, pale and silent.

We're lucky. If she survives the weekend and her bruised lungs heal, the bone in her leg that you snapped in two can be fixed. Her tail will need to be amputated, and all told, her medical bill will be $8000 that we don't have, but she'll probably recover. She'll heal and be able to continue licking milk off of the baby's lips, keeping my kindergartener and my second grader company as they play pirates in our yard or do chalk art, licking the cats to show that she loves every living thing.

But we'll never forget the fear, the blood, June's courage and suffering. You did this and drove away, like it was nothing. This letter is to you, to let you know what you've done. I hope it finds its way to you, not to make you feel bad, but to help you think, and to help you be better, do better.

And this letter is also to everyone who speeds down this road where we have made our home. It could easily have been any one of you. I know you're in a hurry, you're busy, it's fun. I see you. I understand.

Now I need you to see me. See my family. Every time you press your foot down on the gas petal, you show us that your groceries, your fun, your extra seconds are more important than our happiness, our safety, our lives.

Please, I'm asking you. Please. Remember that this is our home, our family. Think about our happiness, our safety, our lives. And when you feel yourself wanting to press down on that gas petal, don't.

Sincerely,

Elise Scott

Green Hill Road, Killingworth

solsticehorse@hotmail.com